Treading the Night Needle (Poem)

A symphony in dream minor

parallels the grin

treading the line between etching and drawing

a singular distance can always bring one closer

to where they had always been in the first place.

Scorch the darkness with

a torch of

burgundy sundust

brushing off the sighs of stars

until it becomes song.

Veered to the left,

you increase the transparency of the little drippings finding

their way in between the cracks of your fortitude

the wax is lacking any substance beyond

what the flame tells it to possess.

Clever, the brick lies

streets and turning towards one another

whispering of your chosen path but

the only lines painted atop them are

those purchased by whoever decided

it was good to have side, and you

crankily try to decipher

how a map ever permits directions

to contradict one another.

Never sleep.

Nitpick and note

dial and soap

the suds are drowning at the base.

Losing a single locke of hair

cannot be so bad


encountering the pile of forgotten threads

you needled without a second glance.

This terrifies me.


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